Letter to Mr. Diamond

Dear Bob,

Well doesn’t that just beat all? I turn my back for one night – one wonderful night when my tent does not get attacked by wild creatures or beset upon by uninvited guests – and what happens? Dr. Temple does a bunk. Gone. Vanished. In his socks.

It’s Paris, by the way. Paris Mulhare. I have a fictional cousin called Edinburgh – Eddie for short – but I don’t speak to him anymore after the whole Scotland thing.

Anyway, a few details to help you understand why the doc’s disappearance is more puzzling than distressing.

The final leg of our journey was to be made on foot, through some really dense vegetation. I asked Garret, our guide, how we were supposed to get through all the growth and his answer was to show me an excessively large knife and inform me we would have to cut a path. For some reason, that sounded like a great idea to me, and I borrowed a machete from Jack and set to work hacking and slashing. And now I understand just how much a person can accomplish when they rechannel their sexual energy.

With that done, we arrived at the base of the Mountain of the White Plume in time for a late lunch and a leisurely afternoon, with plans to address the mountain (hello, mountain) in the morning. We found a bit of a clear stream nearby and finally were able to clean up a bit, which caused no end of merriment between myself and Sheila as the men refused to wash up in pairs.

The following morning, the Team and then some assembled to begin scaling said mountain. About six hundred feet from the base, a cleft in the rocks emitted regular puffs of steam – giving Sheila new concerns about the apparent dormancy of the mountain. Doc and Up(Chuck) agreed that this opening was the mythical Wizard’s Whistle, or the Whistler’s Gate. OK, so maybe that’s not agreement, but somehow we all decided to scale the mountain in an effort to get to it while Alberto and Just-One-Jake waited below with the horses, camping gear, food, alcohol, hairbrush, music and common sense.

I am happy to report that we ascended the mountain without incident. Either that, or my subconscious is repressing it.

After our picturesque climb, we met up with Jack and Sheila, who had cleverly found a muck laden cave of sorts from whence the whistle blew. I took a moment to enjoy nature’s steam facial then joined the rest who were watching Jack struggle against a trap door set into the floor. Evidently, yon door was a tad heavy, as proved by Jack’s tug and fall method. Chuck, after lamenting his inability to oil up for the activity, hauled on the door and pulled it open by sheer brute strength. Jack and the doc set about wedging it open with the E-tool (which, I am told, is not short for electronic – who knew?), and down the steps we went. Down and around this winding, muck covered stone stairway. Eewww.

Clear of the stairs, we stepped down into a good foot of stagnant water. Algae wandered by under the beam of our flashlights, making really good company for the god-awful stench of the place.

We made our way up the nine million foot corridor, and found, roughly midway through, an alcove cut into the left side of the wall, a sort of grotto looking thing in which today -had the Spaniards managed to convert the Incas – a statue of the virgin might weep once a year. Hmmm. I wondered if there had been some sort of icon here that had been removed by earlier expeditions. I went over and kicked about under the water, looking for a submerged pedestal. What I got was several bruised toes. Jack came along with his flashlight – as if that would help. Algae in the spotlight. He knelt down and felt around with his hands, reporting back as he did so. Round, he said, with spoke-like things leading from its center. A drain?! Excited by this possibility, we opted to try and open this potential drain on the count of three. Sadly, we forget to check the ‘do we go on three’ factor and we both went down. Not exactly the aromatherapy bath I had in mind. Deciding we couldn’t open it, we called upon Up(Chuck) who came and turned the "wheel" through sheer brute strength. The susurrus of water slipping down the drain was… well, not as good as Mozart, but still pretty darned enjoyable.

We continued on our slowly drying path, only to come upon a stone barrier at its end. Smooth stone, though, with carvings all around its lintel of wolves and sun and moon and other Incan art. Ancient writings were drawn into what we now believed was a secret door, and the Doc was sent forward. He read the symbols and translated as best he could into English an ancient Incan brain teaser. Argument number one ensued as we politely (cough) discussed the answer to today’s Final Jeopardy question. Our bickering appeared to amuse the Doc, who declined to put his two cents into the kitty for this one. In the end, we thought that perhaps some pressure applied to the carving of the moon might open the magic door (although it should be noted that in an effort to cover all bases Jack did shout "open sesame"). Conscious of the fact that if we were wrong we all might die, Chuck insisted on being the rat to press the lever. I suggested we should all put a hand on like a well-behaved team, but Chuck was adamant. I smiled and nodded and wondered what the weather was like in San Diego…

Et voila. The door slid down to reveal an open chamber and we were faced with a three-prong choice: left, right, or dead ahead. Argument number two ensued as we politely (cough) discussed which was the road less traveled. Someone – who shall remain nameless – suggested we split up – and lived to tell about it! Can you believe? At length we decided that dead ahead was… probably a bad choice of words, but a good choice for exploration. With the doc helpfully marking our trail by use of Archaeologist’s Acrylic Spray Paint™, we made our way by flashlight to yet another door. Wide, wooden, and swollen with the moisture, Jack huffed and puffed but he couldn’t blow the door down. We called in the Brute Squad.

Chuck one-handed the door like the Incredible Hulk on steroids and we all filed onto the narrow defile on the other side of what was once a lovely door. I am happy to report there was not another corridor. There was however, ye olde Incan moat, replete with slithering beasts whose cousin Nessie miraculously survived the Team’s exploits in Scotland. Upon closer inspection, Chuck thought that being in the water was a better way to evaluate the beasties – or so it appeared as he dropped into the infested liquid. There was much shouting as Chuck tried to evade the serpents, Jack tried to shoot the serpents, the Doc tried to capture it all on video, and I tried to tie a knot in some rope strong enough to bear Chuck’s weight. Turns out, though, the gunshots were the best cure for the slimy critters as Chuck emerged drenched but unscathed on the other side of the moat. Jack put his gun away, Doc put the camera away and I recoiled. The rope, that is.

With Chuck steady on the opposite ledge, rope was thrown over the water at the narrowest margin between the two ledges and one by one we made our way across. About this time I was secretly hoping that the next door we came upon would lead us out of the mountain, but no such luck. After the Brute Squad splintered this obstacle, we gathered onto the next narrow stretch of rock to shine a little American made light onto our next challenge.

When I was a kid my dad took us to a carnival that featured a fun house. I never knew that these seemingly innocent forms of entertainment dated back to the Incas! Or so it seemed as we stared down a long, rotating tube, nearly ten feet in diameter. Calling upon my childhood experience, I plunged into this mobile tunnel, heeding Chuck’s warnings of "stay low". I waited at the other end as Chuck entered the tube and - implementing the do as I say, not as I do rule of espionage - stumbled at a noisy, badly balanced half-crouch through the tube.

It might have been the uneven (or excessive) weight, or simply a matter of bad timing, but as Chuck neared the halfway mark, the stone wall beside me emitted a hiss that preceded the release of a flaming arrow. Apparently Chuck had sufficiently ducked, and the arrow missed him cleanly before lodging itself in Patricia’s shoulder. There was much shouting and screaming at the other end of the tube and most of the crew had enough sense to plaster themselves against the ground, but not the heiress. She took another hit – this time in the foot, and I scrambled to try and find something to block the arrow opening. Sadly, my only options were my muck-laden boots or my half-full canteen. I shoved the canteen into the opening, only to have it ejected by the next arrow. Well, at least that projectile was not flaming. I tried again, and the block seemed to hold. Right until Chuck put several rounds into it, effectively destroying my canteen and breaking the mechanism that released the arrows.

The rest of the group made their way through the tube, carrying the bleeding, blubbering heiress with them. The Brute Squad broke down the next door and we all gratefully filed into a chamber that appeared to have once been someone’s living quarters. Patricia was desposited on the rickety old cot for some instant first aid as the Doc and Sheila gleefully pulled books and parchments from shelves, sharing the archaeologists rapture.

But of course, there was yet another door. Chuck took time out from Patricia’s bedside to open the door for us and Jack and I proceeded into the next chamber.

Now this was more like it. Tapestries, a huge four-poster bed… and a chest at its foot. Sheila and the Doc wandered in behind us, pleased at more books and ancient trinkets. Jack and I set to work on the lock that held the chest closed. We took turns trying whatever methods were to hand – who thought of bringing a lockpick set into a mountain? No one. We tried survival knives and arrowheads and cursed the lack of ancient Incan crab mallets (and the attendant lack of seafood) before using some of the Lilliputian scissors from the first aid kit. Chuck stepped into the room as Jack and I met success at last. The lock sprung open and we cautiously lifted the lid.

Whew! And I thought the stink from the muck and mire was bad! That was nothing compared to this. Of course, this was some kind of near-poison sulfuric blend, so maybe that has something to do with it. The doc and Sheila passed out cold, Jack reeled a bit but managed to hang on, and Chuck hit the deck like a fallen colossus. The good news is that foul air wasn’t the only thing slipping from the chest. Gold and silver coins spilled out like a river in Jack’s dreams, highlighted here and there by large uncut gemstones.

Jack began scooping the treasure into our knapsacks while I made the rounds of the room with smelling salts. Garret went to all the trouble of moving Chuck’s prone form out of the doorway in an effort to see what was going on, only to back out again once the stench reached him.

The good-bad news is that there was no other door. We had reached the end of the line on this fork.

After a break for food and water, someone (I’m guessing Chuck and Garret – I could be wrong) rigged a sort of litter to put Patricia on as we retraced our steps back to the Whistler’s Gate. The doc was jubilant at having found some written evidence. Jack was jubilant at having found highly portable treasure. Sheila was jubilant at leaving the volcano, and I was jubilant because I knew the location of the stream where I could wash off the muck.

Chuck, on the other hand, was not so jubilant when we informed him that it was his responsibility to carry the heiress down the mountain, but he got over it.

Well, Patricia really is in a pretty bad way, but I can’t stop being thankful that this means she’ll stay in Chuck’s tent and not come knocking on mine.

One good thing about the whole in and out of the mountain thing is that we hadn’t had to break camp. Thus, we didn’t need to set it up upon our return and were able to have "dinner" (mre’s) and fall exhausted into ready-made tents.

The next morning we were supposedly wiser about what supplies we would need to continue our journey within the mountain and we all dutifully repacked our packs and prepared to climb.

Now. If I live through this jungle trek, if I should ever return to civilization as I know it, this is one skill I will have to endeavor to learn. This whole mountain-climbing thing just eludes me. Fact, this is probably what will kill me; Ortiz doesn’t even scare me any more. I lost my grip somewhere around three hundred feet and fell a good hundred and fifty before Chuck caught the slack (or whatever the heck he does with the rope) and saved me from becoming an Archaeologist’s Acrylic Spray Paint™ outline. Guide Garret continued to prove himself one of the good guys as he made his own climb side-by-side with mine, coaching as he went.

Back through the gate, back through the muck, down the corridor and all that and stop at the forks in the road. At least we know what lies ahead. Too bad we’re going right or left.

Argument number three nearly ensues, but Jack is clever enough to flip coin. OK, maybe not, but it felt just about as arbitrary.

Jack and Chuck take the lead, followed closely by the doctor, then Sheila and myself, and finally Guide Garret.

We start up the left corridor as beside me Sheila murmurs that the mountain is going to blow and she wishes she’d stayed behind with Alberto, Just-One-Jake, Patricia, the horses and the common sense.

Midway (or so it feels) along, Jack and Chuck come upon a wide break across our path – a tributary of ye olde Incan moat. Argument number three does now ensue, with Jack and Chuck bickering and tossing about words like pitons and rope and ‘my way’. At the back of the pack, Sheila and I embark upon a rousing game of "I’m going on a picnic". We complete one variation of the game and start upon another just in time for the Doc – apparently impatient to get to the other side of the moat – slips into the water. I reach for my rope so that I might throw him a lifeline, but Chuck pulls him out using sheer brute strength.

At length, Jack makes a great leap to the other side of the divide and a rope is thrown over to him. The remaining members of the party use a combination of rope and athletics to clear the gap and the second go-round of the picnic game pauses at D. Well, I can think of at least one "D" I wouldn’t mind taking on a picnic… A little wine, some brie, a bit of fresh fruit…

Where was I?

Oh, yes, safely on the other side we continue along until we reach a stretch of hallway on which either side discs ten feet in diameter line the walls at equal intervals. A flashlight check reveals these discs were forged of metal that has now oxidized. I brush away a bit of the patina with my sleeve and we learn these discs are made of bronze. Frankly, my mind was still on the whole "D" thing and I failed to pick up on why Chuck felt these discs presented some sort of danger, but I’m long accustomed to heeding the rising of his hackles, so I smiled and nodded and dreamed of … picnics… while he tossed a piton down to the other end of the hallway.

The object, which should have landed with a comfortingly metallic clink, landed instead with a peculiar thud. Hmmm…. The beam of the flashlights didn’t reach to where the piton had fallen, and the light stick Chuck sent down after it didn’t land quite close enough to illuminate the piton. An inspection with Chuck’s infrared binoculars revealed that the piton had somehow been heated to a temperature hot enough to melt the joints. Another hmmm…

After a few more chucks by Chuck we were able to determine that by some Incan miracle, metal grew hotter and hotter as it progressed along the corridor but liquid did not. Therefore, naked humans could proceed with no risk. OK, so now we know this pathway was designed by a man. Further, since the discs were set about a foot above the floor, metal objects could be kicked, or dragged along. (which would be okay if that was how the Incan women got the Incan men to the other end of the corridor…)

We each stripped down to 100% cotton fibers and wrapped our belongings as best we could to be dragged along the floor like deflated balloons. Jack and I took the lead and it wasn’t long before we discovered that while we were in no imminent danger of boiling, the possibility did exist, so we beat feet along the path and advised those trailing behind us to do the same.

Past where the mangled piton, glowing light stick and other paraphernalia lay we found a chamber. Jack dressed quickly and briefly ran up the a short set of stairs to check the functionality of still another doorway while the doc – recently arrived – and I looked at a narrow stone "trick" door inside the chamber. Thinking that this little door might give access to the discs from hell and we might be able to shut down their kryptonic powers, I began searching with my fingers for a hidden release.

Thankfully, the doc and I were able to jump out of the way as the stone door fell inward. However, on the down side, this did allow the nine gazillion rats into our space.

From the hallway I could hear Chuck yelling at Sheila, while behind me Jack began shooting at the rats. Not to be outdone, Garret began shooting also. I don’t have a gun, so I had to settle for slicing open an mre and tossing it down the hall in hopes the rats would follow.

Sheila and Chuck stumbled into the room, but they had evidently spent too much time in the corridor since their neat bundles of clothing had begun to smolder. Rats are scurrying, bullets are flying, and Chuck and Sheila are trying to beat out the flames. Me, I’m trying to keep yet more vermin out of my underwear.

It became apparent that there was no hope for Chuck’s meager possessions. And since he had wrapped all of his weapons into that little bundle and they were about to begin discharging, he gave the bundle a mighty heave and sent it back down along the corridor. The sounds that came back to us were not unlike Chinese New Year: lots of screeching, pop-pop-pops, and large objects hitting wall-set gongs. Very festive. Well, at least it cured the rat problem.

I took a few seconds to climb back into my clothes before joining Jack at the top of the staircase while Sheila and Chuck did their best to salvage what they had salvaged and redress themselves.

With not as much water in this area, and due in no small part to ye olde Incan hallway furnace, the next door was easily opened by Jack – as I refused to be responsible for what might come tumbling out of this one – but not before the doc translated the inscription for us. "He who passes here will continue to pass". I didn’t like the sound of that, in Incan or English.

The door swung inward as Jack and I stood back. A cursory check with the flashlight revealed a slippery, polished, slanting floor, rather like a large marble slide, fading off into blackness. Yippee. More fun house amusement.

Why? I don’t know. Perhaps my paranoia was up, but I called back to Chuck to bring up some dead rats. He seemed a tad grossed out by this prospect so I went back and gathered a few grisly creatures along side him. Then we sent their little corpses one by one down the slide before we got smart and tied a light stick to some rope and sent that down.

We learned that this was indeed the jaws of hell. The slippery surfaces twisted and coiled, their intent to send the unsuspecting spy into walls of spikes.

Jack began muttering something about throwing an idol in exchange for a whip while Chuck formulated a plan using the door, some rope and, no doubt, a large wooden badger.

At the end of argument number four, we were able to convince Chuck that if we needed to continue on this path we could return the following day with something approximating appropriate tools. Not that we were likely to find an Ace Hardware in the jungle, but still.

We retraced our steps back to the start of our folly and headed down the rightmost path with Jack in the lead.

Some distance along, we passed a cut-out hallway to our left, while straight on the hallway took a turn to the right. Jack took out his coin (figuratively) and we marched down the little corridor on the left.

Surprise surprise, a large wooden door crossed our path. More surprisingly, it opened with little resistance, as though it were on some sort of pistons.

Within the room were five floor-to-ceiling statues of ancient Incan warriors. They each bore a number: 3, 5, 7, 9, 11. Another door was set into the wall opposite with more Incan scribble carved into the lintel.

Oh, goody. Another puzzle, this one along the lines of : One of these things is not like the other and your life depends on it. Later for that. I was getting out of there.

I turned to go back into the corridor but damned if that door didn’t seal itself shut quicker Krazy Glue. It was about this time the ceiling started to lower…

By this point Sheila wasn’t too worried about the volcano erupting, as you can well imagine.

The doc and I agreed that "9" didn’t belong, and the Brute Squad set about trying to topple the inert Incan.

The ceiling continued to lower, breaking off the headdresses of the other statues.

I believe there was some profanity involved as Chuck drew his pistol and fired smartly into Incan #9. Sand spilled out and miracle of miracles the ceiling ceased its descent and the opposite door sprang open neat as you please.

Ahead lay a turnstile. A one way turnstile.

What argument number are we up to, anyway?

While Chuck was pointing out that if we passed through the turnstile we wouldn’t be able to come back, Jack and I plunged ahead, followed by Doc, Garret, and Sheila. I imagine Chuck gave into pressure, because when we all assembled, appalled, on the next ledge, Chuck was among us.

Before us…

There was a movie once in which Roger Moore went skipping across the backs of a line of snapping alligators to reach the opposite bank of a muddy river.

Child’s play.

From the ceiling, twelve large wooden discs were suspended to about fifteen feet above the pool of boiling mud and lava spurts. Each disc was nearly three feet around, with three feet separating them one from the other. They formed a line, or sorts, from the ledge on which we stood down to a ledge on the opposite side of Dante’s river, just at the banks, where – naturally – there was another passageway.

Right about here I decided we were never going to make it out alive. And since I didn’t have a gun to shoot myself with – and Chuck would probably try to stop me anyway – I volunteered to play a little life-and-death leapfrog.

Chuck thought perhaps he should cross first, so that we might be assured of the weight-bearing capacity of the discs, but he was dissuaded. He did, however, insist that I wear a rope so that he might catch me if I fell, which was really a very nice gesture, except that I was hoping for a quick death. But, I figured far enough out I would reach a point where the distance to the fire spurting pool was shorter than the length of rope and I would be submerged anyway. Plus, the lava would no doubt eat through the rope, so I shouldn’t suffer much.

Off I went, with yet another rope to tie off to each "lily pad" so that the rest of the team could follow. Now, believe it or not, I never was a sailor. Even harder to believe, I never dated one. Me and knots? I avoid tying any of them, thankyouverymuch, but I did the best I could.

The good news/ bad news is that I made it to the opposite bank unscathed, but desperately in need of a drink. First, because the sweat was rolling off of me. Second, because I had to watch Jack’s progress as he followed.

It didn’t go quite as well for Jack, and he had a few narrow misses. On the opposite ledge, Sheila hid her eyes with her fingers, but kept peeking through, so I’m not sure what good that did.

Since I didn’t want to watch either, I did a little recon of the hallway. I know you won’t believe this, but it led to another door! I swear!

I huffed and I puffed, but I was just a girl. Maybe I should call for the Brute Squad…

At last Jack arrived. Jack and his ever-present flask. I begin to respect what Sheila sees in him.

After a good swig I called back the group on the other side of the great divide that they shouldn’t come over. Really, it was dangerous, and there was no sense everyone risking their necks if this was just another wild condor chase.

Jack and I did our best to open the door together. But again we had a bit of trouble with the question of "do we go on three" and it took quite some time for us to get the door open. But finally…

Have mercy! You should have been there! You would have loved it. Wall to wall gold, silver, gems, coins, and in the center of it all an enormous hammer forged in gold. Oh, it was the sort of horde a dragon should guard! But don’t worry, Jack has pictures.

We called back to the team that we had found it and they were all eager to come over. We told them no, we’d bring back what we could. There was no sense them risking their safety and besides, Jack was taking pictures (should we ever find ye olde Incan Fotomat).

I don’t think they were greatly pleased, but they waited while Jack and I packed what we could before making our way back across the lily pads.

This was a bit harder. Not only were we now forced to leap on a slightly upward angle, we were also encumbered with gold, gems, bottles, and a parchment or two for Sheila.

The ropes strung between the discs didn’t survive the heat well and snapped repeatedly as Jack made his way across. He spent easily as much time hanging by a thread as he did catching his breath on one of the discs.

And then it was my turn.

Again, I think my subconscious has repressed this, so really all I remember is setting foot on the opposite bank, once again in the comforting presence of my teammates. Then I felt the need to curse Jack as he had already emptied his flask.

The doc assured us we had secured enough treasure for him to get the funding for a "formal" expedition and we all breathed lighter as we made our way out of the mountain.

But ho! We still have to climb down! Oh, mercy, why couldn’t I have died in the fire swamp??

Maybe my strength was gone, maybe my nerves were shot… OK, my nerves were shot. I didn’t even hardly notice that I descended over one hundred feet on a free fall. Luckily, Chuck caught the slack, or whatever, and I was able to reach the ground without further incident. Just in time to watch everyone else make it look easy…

You know, I just don’t think I was cut out for this sort of thing, now that I think about it.

We made our way back to camp, where Jack refilled his flask and we did a mini-exhibit of the "treasure". Alberto broke out the last of the canyo and despite Chuck’s warnings (and abstinence) a good time was had by all.

Which brings us to now. Morning. And the doc is gone. Jack’s off trying to track him just now while the rest of us wait. Chuck can’t figure out why his perimeter alarms didn’t go off, but no one has any answers for him. The "treasure" is all here and there were no signs of a struggle. Still, the doc is really not a doddering old man who might wander off and forget where he was, or where he was going.

So that’s where we are. We’ve found some neat stuff – not what we set out for, but crowbar, hammer, why split hairs? – but we’ve lost Donna and the doc and Patricia’s not looking too hot.

Another argument is about to ensue here and I’ve lost count, frankly. But I’d best pay attention to this one as it might directly affect my plans to … relocate… the artifacts. Next time, I believe I’ll wait in a civilized city until it’s time for me to step in. I have nothing left to prove to myself after this. And having seen an enormous horde of gold I can say with the utmost confidence, there is not enough money in the world to make me do this again.

Yours,

Paris